The Announcement
by Kallios the Scholar
Summary: Fili has something that he'd like to say to the fangirls. So do Bilbo and Galadriel.
1. The Announcement

There is an auditorium. It is filled with people, all of the seats taken and other viewers standing in the aisles to either side of the rows of folding chairs. There is a low murmur of conversation running through the room.

Lights come on. The murmuring dies down. A short, blond, bearded figure, wearing furs and leathers, comes onto the stage, holding a microphone and a paper that is most likely a script for something.

Several fangirls in the audience sigh happily at the sight of him.

The dwarf examines the microphone for a moment, frowning at it. "This thing is turned on, right?" he asks. His voice booms across the auditorium, causing him to jump a bit at the sheer, unexpected volume of his own voice.

A long-suffering sigh from offstage, somewhere behind the pair of curtains that are flanking the dwarf. "Yes, it is. You're supposed to speak into the other end, though."

"I can do that," the dwarf says, this time into the right end of the microphone. His voice is even louder than before. In the spotlight, everyone sees the stocky figure wince. There are a few shouted complaints from the audience, and several people are covering their ears.

There is cursing from offstage, the sound of arguing and muttering, and the dwarf hums (very cautiously) into the microphone as the volume is adjusted and turned down to a less painful level.

"Now?" he asks.

"Go for it," says the offstage voice.

The dwarf turns back to the audience, his eyes scanning the crowd of people gathered here. The majority of them, the vast majority, are female. He smiles somewhat nervously. A few audience-members swoon.

"Fíli at your service!" he says. "And not Filli or Filly, or anything like that. My name is F-Í-L-I. Please stop misspelling my name, and my brother's name, and the names of my various relations and comrades. None of us like it and none of us think it's funny."

Total silence in the audience. The dwarf takes a deep breath and continues.

"Kíli and I aren't interested in you, either. We don't like your Mary Sues—Kíli _especially_ doesn't like the Mary Sues. Though we can be cordial to those of another species (except elves, of course) we find human women and girls unattractive. The same goes for female hobbits—we're not interested. None of us are. We _like_ our women to have beards. We think they're... what's the modern human word? Sashie?"

"Sexy," prompted the offstage voice. It sounded amused.

Fíli smiled at the offstage person and nodded, then turned back to the audience. "Yes, that's it. Sexy. Dwarves think women with beards are sexy.

"Also, dwarves live for _several centuries_. I myself am eighty-two, and my brother is seventy-seven. It can take decades for a relationship to develop between two dwarves—we have more time than Men do, after all. Having your OFC become romantically linked to either of us could be the work of a _very_ long time. We do not hop into the bushes and 'do it' after a measly ten chapters of poorly-written fanfic."

The stunned silence continues. The dwarf looks around again, narrowing his eyes and looking royally peeved. He is the nephew of Thorin Oakenshield and the heir to the King Under the Mountain. Why these foolish fangirls seem to forget that fact is beyond him.

"And on the matter of Tauriel: any sort of friendship between dwarves and elves is extremely rare and uncommon. Thorin is probably going to disown Kíli when he finds out—" a short burst of laughter from the audience "—so don't think that every dwarf will swoon over a member of the Firstborn. For that matter... Elrond's only children are Arwen, Elladan, and Elrohir. Galadriel had only one daughter, and she is in the Halls of Mandos. Haldir isn't married and has no daughters, and Thranduil's only child is Legolas (who was too afraid of being mobbed by fangirls to take part in this presentation). Any non-canonical daughters will be dismembered on sight. We don't like them. The elves _that __**aren't **__their parents_ don't like them. Thank you."

The dwarf smiles again. The grin is rather feral and has way too much pent up anger to really come across as friendly. Several audience-members twist around in their seats and look towards the exit—which is being guarded by Dwalin, who plants his feet more firmly and hefts an axe. They aren't going anywhere.

"Also, my uncle really, really _does not like_ elves. So please don't use your elvish Mary Sue to try and seduce him. It won't work. It really won't. Kíli is the only dwarf of the Company that has a strange fetish for older, taller women—and none of us approve.

Fíli took another deep breath. He appeared to be calming down somewhat, which maybe meant that his speech was drawing to a close.

"None of us mind a good OC. We really don't. We might stare a bit at an AU where there's a fifteenth walker or where I, my uncle, and my brother survive the Battle of the Five Armies, but if it's plausible and well-written then we won't get angry. Try to use the canon rather than just walk all over it. So... that's it. Thank you. Remember what I said... _or else you'll feel the wrath of a prince of Durin's line!_"

The audience members stream out of the exit, a lot of them looking rightly terrified. Dwalin makes no effort to stop them and stands aside, polishing his axe. Fíli wanders backstage and hands over the microphone. "Do you think it'll work?" he asks, grabbing a mug of ale and drinking deep. His throat had gone dry during the presentation.

"With fangirls? Maybe. Mary Sue writers? I doubt it. Most of them don't seem to want to learn," said the person who had previously adjusted the microphone volume. The tone was disappointed and vaguely mournful.

"Why?"

"Do you think I know? Hormones and teenage obsession are difficult things to understand. What's Kíli doing?"

"Taking potshots at fangirls from the roof. He calls it therapy."

"Well, considering what he's been through, I'd call it that too. You're very brave, doing this for him."

"Thank you."

"...What, no faux-modest denial?"

"Writer, I have faced goblins, orcs, wargs, elves, giant spiders, trolls, my _uncle_... and none of them have prepared me for the horror that is an adolescent fangirl who thinks she can write."


	2. A Note on MPreg and Durincest

The fangirls had been chivvied back into the auditorium, moved mainly by the force of Thorin's scowl (which has more force than The Force, actually, and could put a Jedi Knight to shame) and were sitting meekly in their seats, looking relatively terrified. A few, ever hopeful, were praying that Kíli would be doing the next presentation.

They were about to be disappointed.

A small creature, rather domestic in dress and with large, hairy feet, walked into the auditorium. He was pale, and kept rolling a small item over and over in his hands—occasionally, a glint of gold could be glimpsed through his fingers.

He was also trembling slightly. It wasn't through fear, though, since not many of the fangirls present lusted after him. No. The hobbit was trembling from rage. Pure, unadulterated, uncensored, very-likely-to-get-violent rage.

The hobbit faced the audience and glared at them for several moments, too angry to speak. At last, though, he opened his mouth. "My name," he gritted out, "Is Bilbo Baggins. I am a Baggins of Bag-End, and I am a _male_ hobbit. I cannot become pregnant. Ever. It is physically impossible. Good day to you all."

And with that, he stormed off the stage.

There was a long moment where nothing happened. The audience shifted uneasily in their seats, noticing that Dwalin was still guarding the exit and looking as immovable as ever.

"Ahem. Your attention, please."

The gazes of the audience swung back to the stage. A person was standing there, human, about mid-teens, rather unassuming and plain in appearance. She adjusted her glasses and glanced at a clipboard that was tucked into the crook of her arm.

"Kallios at your service! I'm the author of this little tale, and the reason why you're trapped in here—" someone threw a bucket of popcorn, snarling insults. The girl ignored it. "—listening to the ranting of the characters that you claim to adore. I've gotten several reviews asking me to handle the 'slash' of the fandom, and I'm afraid to inform you that I can't."

She coughed nervously into the crook of her arm and flashed a smile, revealing orthodontia. "You see, I wrote Fíli's rant because I hated Mary Sues and badly-written fanfiction. That's all. I have nothing against slash and really see no reason to write a rant for Thorin to recite about why he thinks of Bilbo only as a friend. If a writer can claim that he and Bilbo are in a relationship, and then _plausibly support_ that claim... well, I applaud them.

"And with the matter of 'Durincest'... there _is_ a historical basis of incest between siblings (does the name 'Borgia' ring a bell?) and though we know the Men of Middle-earth would die of shame rather than commit it—literally, in the case of Túrin and Nienor—and that this behavior was probably learned from the elves... dwarves are, as per usual, a blank slate. I agree that it's unlikely, and I am personally against it (in fact, I'm absolutely disgusted by even the thought of it) but if it's well-written and plausible and _explained_—then I really can say that it's out of my jurisdiction. I care about things being well-written and plausible, and if something goes against my personal morals _but otherwise contains every quality that I would admire in a fanfic_ then I simply don't read it.

"Thank you, that's all. You may leave until I find something new to hate you for." She smiled again, and the fangirls once more fled the auditorium.


	3. Concerning the Firstborn

**The single word of Elvish in this chapter is taken from "Merin Essi ar Quenteli!" a website that I trust whenever I need to look up names or phrases to use in my own writing. For all those who are OC authors themselves and have become slightly intimidated by what they're reading, I'd heavily recommend it. There are also links to other helpful websites, and browsing through it is a very educational experience.**

* * *

The setting is, once again, the now-familiar auditorium. The fangirls are sitting in their seats, shifting and looking around, whispering among themselves, and wondering who is going to be speaking to them this time and what they will be angry about.

A lot of them are still hoping that it will be Kíli performing this newest presentation. There is something to be said for the sheer obstinacy of adolescent infatuation. Or stupidity, depending on how you look at it.

The lights gradually dim until only the spotlight, trained on the stage, is bright enough to see by. A figure steps gracefully to the center of the stage. She is clothed in a long gown of shimmering white, and her golden hair spills loose down her back. She is tall and proud, of regal bearing, a Noldo who knew the light of the Two Trees of Valinor and who was rumored to have inspired Fëanor in the creation of the legendary Silmarils. She was young before the Valar created the sun and the moon, and she knew Morgoth as Melkor and had come to Middle-earth across the Grinding Ice during the First Age. She is possessed of the Sight and is the bearer of Nenya, one of the elven rings of power.

She is Galadriel, the Lady of Light.

And the fangirls know _squat_ about her besides the fact that she rules over Lothlórien and is sometimes downright _creepy_ with the mind reading thing.

But nevertheless, a low, hushed murmur of awe runs through the crowd at the sight of her, and Galadriel's eyes—far too ancient and knowing for the age that she appears to be—sweep over the crowd, assessing.

She clears her throat.

Instant silence descends.

"I am here," Galadriel says, "To speak of the Eldar, better known to you as elves. You know that we are immortal, and remain ever young, and on occasion can see into the future. But there is much that is _unknown_ to you, and I am here to rectify this... disturbing lack of knowledge."

Her voice became brisk, her eyes harder.

"The elves are the Firstborn Children of Ilúvatar. We came to Middle-earth _before_ Men and Dwarves did. We are (for the most part) very wise, very powerful, and we do not truly die. It is true that we may be slain, in battle or from poison, but our spirits depart for the Halls of Mandos when this happens, and we may return to Arda after a time. Likewise, as we do not die, we marry only once—though a notable exception is Finwë, who was allowed to remarry on the condition that his first wife would never forsake Mandos's Halls and return to Arda or Valinor.

"The fairest among the Eldar was Lúthien, daughter of Thingol and Melian. Your Mary Sue simply _cannot _be as lovely as she, ever. It is impossible. The only one in the Third Age who comes close to Lúthien in beauty is Arwen Undómiel. And her brothers have promised to... remove from existence... any who are said to surpass her in loveliness. But of course their services will not be required, as no-one here has even _thought_ of crafting such an abomination." She smiled sweetly

Several fangirls sunk down low in their seats, suddenly finding great interest in the patch of flooring between their feet.

Galadriel's beautific smile became a triumphant smirk, and she continued: "Also, a note on the terminology that must be used when attempting to craft an OC who is of the Eldar—we have very specific naming traditions that are relevant to time period, gender, and lineage, and for the best amount of accuracy it is best that these traditions are followed. A male elf is referred to as an _ellon_. A female elf is called an _elleth_. To those who dare refer to my daughter or granddaughter as 'she-elves' I will give nightmares of Ungoliant."

The glare that Galadriel directed at the fangirls made Antarctica look like a warm, sunlit paradise. The audience was in perfect sync as they cringed down into their seats, a brief image of clicking mandibles and a bloated, grotesque abdomen flashing at the forefront of their minds—as a warning of what might happen _if_...

A collective shudder ran through the crowd. Celeborn gave a thumbs-up to his wife from the sidelines. Galadriel smiled warmly back at him... and then her gaze returned to the audience, and became as hard as adamant. She knew what they were thinking (or rather, fantasizing) about.

"Return your thoughts to the path of decency, children of Men! Legolas does _not_ wear a black leather thong!"

"...And you know this _how_?" one of the fangirls dared to say.

Galadriel slowly turned and looked at the girl.

There was a long moment of silence, and then the fangirl turned and ran out of the auditorium, shrieking about giant spiders. The Lady of the Wood smiled again. She looked very satisfied with herself.

"You may leave now," she said. "Do not think to come to Lothlórien - I know your names and faces, and the faces of the Sues you have crafted in your idleness and folly. The Marchwarden has received orders to shoot on sight. Namárië."

And with that, the fangirls once more turned and left, not bothering to run now. They knew they'd be forced to come back sometime later.


End file.
